The Mark. Edyth Bulbring

a child cries?” demands the drudge teacher.

      A boy at the front of the class raises his hand. “You must pick it up and soothe it,” he recites.

      And pinch it when no one is looking and pull its hair.

      The teacher looks at the boy, stretches her lips. “Yes, oh yes. And how must you serve the master of the house his soup?”

      “You must make sure it is hot. But never too hot.”

      And when he is not looking you must spit in the bowl.

      The teacher glances at me. “Ettie, you’ve got something to add?”

      I am one of her favourites. Teacher’s pet. I slap on my sincere and respectful mask. It must never slip. The backs of my legs were taught one lesson too many before I got smart and learnt that teachers’ pets don’t go to the scholar warden for special tutoring.

      “When you serve the master of the house his soup you must not look at him but keep your eyes on the ground.”

      And curse him under your breath.

      The teacher claps her hands. The prints on her fingers and the lines on her palms have been worn smooth from scrubbing Posh floors. “Excellent, Ettie. I can see that you’re almost ready to serve in your trade.”

      I smile at her. It makes my face hurt. Since learning of my future as a drudge I have tried to change it. Scrubbing the mark at the base of my spine with steel wool was the first thing I attempted. I was seven years old then. It left open sores on my back. The flies feasted on my flesh for weeks. When the skin healed, the numbers showed themselves again.

      The next time, I applied some of the acid we drudges use to clean pots. It burnt my skin away. But when the scabs fell off, the numbers reappeared.

      There are stories told by people who know things, stories about people who have tried to escape their trades by running away across the desert. But thirst always drives them back to the city, where they are caught again. They are tracked down by the Locusts who use the handsets linked to The Machine. No one knows precisely how it all works, but one thing is for sure – as long as those numbers are on our spines, there is nowhere to hide from the Locusts.

      The day drags on, with nappies and teething and the correct way to cure indigestion (hold the brat upside down). My fellow trainees listen and suck it all in. Not me. I will never be a drudge. My fingers feel for the wound on my back. I have seen what the cream does to people’s skin. Another tube should do the trick. I must get another one fast. It is my last chance to get rid of my mark. The months will not stop their march towards my fifteenth birthday.

      As the teacher closes her lips around the last syllable – “Drudge class dismissed” – I am out of the classroom and running.

      4

      Reader

      I run as far as I can, without stopping to put on my nose shield. The hot wind buffets me; sand coats my face; black gob fills my nostrils. I stop when I can no longer breathe.

      Locusts question me at the boom before I cross the bridge to Mangeria City.

      “I’m going to the pleasure quarter,” I say.

      A Locust grabs my arm. “No, you must stay with me.” He pushes me against the boom, his breath foul on my face. “I’ll show you pleasure like you’ve never had before.”

      I soften my slap on his glove with a giggle, and pull away. It is not yet curfew. He has to let me pass. Locusts jeer as I race in the direction of the clubs where the Posh drink and laugh themselves silly.

      People from Slum City party here too. Handler Xavier and the market wardens shake hands with the Posh, making deals that the Locusts turn blind eyes to for a cut of the credits.

      If Kitty was with me, she would have pointed out her favourite places in the quarter. She likes to hang out here when she is not at school or playing the game with Handler Xavier. The men chase her like rats after a piece of meat in the sewers.

      I am not headed for the clubs for a good time. My destination is the beauty parlour, one of many that service the Posh wanting a make-over before hitting the clubs. But I do not want my hair straightened or my face stretched tight, pinned to my skull so that my eyes appear like slits. I would rather have big eyes and Savage hair than look like a Posh.

      Traders bustle me off the pavement and I walk in the street, avoiding the Drainers who are elbow deep in waste from the gutters. I dodge sweating Pulaks pulling fat Posh to shops where they buy the food people like me cannot afford and are not meant to eat. I leap over potholes, and three blocks on I reach the Beautiful Like Me Beauty Parlour.

      The salon is choked with men and women shouting out like a gaggle of Market Nags at the beginning of trading day. Trussed in chairs, they gaze at mirrors, their faces dripping with treatments; hair sweltering under caps. The air is plastic.

      The ways of the Posh are a mystery to me. They roast themselves on the beach to turn brown. And burn their skin with acid to get white again.

      “I’ll be voting for the candidate from the sixth family. He looks trustworthy, I think,” a woman says as she bakes inside a plastic body wrap. She has Kitty’s honey-corn skin. Except for her face. The flesh has been burned off, leaving a mask of scab. Underneath, pale skin will grow. Fit for a Posh.

      “Oh no, I like the candidate from the ninth family,” another says. She picks away at the crust on her cheek. And stops. She must not risk scarring.

      One of the topics of conversation being thrashed to death in the beauty parlour today is the forthcoming Mangerian election.

      It should interest me because I am taking part this year. I have to. It is Mangerian law. Everybody who has turned fifteen and is legal, from Posh to trader, has to participate in this event. Or non-event, people who know things say. Behind their hands.

      There are exceptions to this rule. Past traders who are too old to work. And the Rejects, who cannot work because they are sick or damaged. They do not have any use, so do not matter.

      Voting in the election has been beaten into me during civic responsibility class for the past ten years. I know it as well as the mark on my spine. Every three years, we must choose the Guardians who run our lives.

      The slate of candidates is decided by an elite group of Posh who call themselves the Mangerians. They are post-conflagration families who banded together and got things running again after the world blew up and fell apart. The moon’s face was ripped in half, and ever since, she has been winking at us with one eye; the other half of her face is scarred black. These things happened in a time that people who know things remember.

      The election candidates all come from the Mangerian families. They know best how our lives should be run. It has been like this since year Dot PC. We are grateful: if it were not for them, we would be running around like Savages instead of living happy, useful lives, gainfully employed in a trade. Yes, I know my civic responsibility lessons by heart.

      Twenty candidates put their faces on the ballot; every Posh, every trader has twenty votes. So even though maths and I are not close friends, I can at least count my fingers and toes. It is no surprise who is elected to play Guardian for a three-year period.

      I escape the chattering uglies and edge past the row of reclining chairs. I take off my sunglasses and scan the different creams on a tray. I see it – the tube marked with a black skull, hiding under a pile of hair dye. When I use it tonight I will not dilute it. I will not be using it to have Posh skin. It has to be strong. I want the mark on my spine gone.

      “Ettie, my dear, are you looking for something?”

      I jerk away from the tray as Me, the brains behind the Beautiful Like Me Beauty Parlour, approaches. A smile lifts his chub­by cheeks.

      “Is there something I can help you with, Ettie dear?”

      My hand fiddles behind my back for the edge of the tray and fumbles among the tubes. Me comes closer